


Commiserations at the Clubhouse

by fawatson



Series: ITOWverse:  The Lost Man Booker Prize [2]
Category: RENAULT Mary - Works
Genre: Gen, ITOWverse, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:44:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6482719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After <i>Fire from Heaven</i> fails to win the Lost Man Booker Prize, Renault's characters are deeply concerned about Alexander's reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breakfast

She wasn’t a named character—just one of the army of slaves and family retainers that had kept things running smoothly behind the scenes.  She’d helped clear up after weddings and funerals.  Sadly, she’d helped clear the bedroom after Stateira had died (and been most relieved thereafter when she’d been assigned to work _elsewhere_ ).  Now she crept almost silently down the back stairs of the clubhouse to the kitchen, where she rummaged through the cupboards until she found some olives, honey, and cheese.  Another servant handed her some rolls still warm from the oven; the smell of newly baked bread filled the kitchen.  A carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice was added to the tray, along with small plates, a couple of knives and two glasses.  Then, carrying the tray carefully (for it was now quite heavy), she made her way back up the stairs to the impressive carved door to Alexander’s bedroom, where Bagoas waited for her.  The tray was transferred from one to the other without speech.  Then she watched, hoping for a glimpse of Alexander when the door briefly opened as Bagoas slipped back into the room.  But he was too skilled for that; the door never opened wide enough.  Disappointed, the girl returned down to the kitchen.

“Well? Any news?” asked the rest.

She shook her head sadly.  It had been over a week since the news of the Booker prize had been announced, and _still_ Alexander kept to his room.


	2. Luncheon

“Thank you my dear; that was truly inspiring.”  Lucy smiled as Gareth finished grace, before standing up so she could take the lid from the soup tureen placed before her, and beginning to ladle portions for everyone. 

Privately, Olive thought saying grace before luncheon rather over-egging the pudding (not that she would ever say as much, but once a day had always been sufficient when she was growing up).  Nonetheless, she had folded her hands and bent her head politely while Gareth spoke the brief prayer. 

Lucy smiled at her cousin as she handed her a bowl of lentil soup.  “So, what is the latest from the community?” 

Since the—difficulties—at Christmastime, Lucy didn’t like to go herself, but she did like to keep up with the events.  And since Olive, it seemed, visited the clubhouse fairly regularly, it was quite simple to find out what was happening. 

“It seems Alexander hasn’t come out of his room since the news was announced!” 

“News?” Lucy queried. 

“Of that prize!  The one for best book.” 

“Dear, dear—some bread, Olive?”  Lucy pushed a plate with thin slices toward her cousin. 

“Everyone is quite worried; apparently he was quite counting on winning.”

Lucy shook her head slightly in wonderment. 

Gareth frowned repressively.  “Foreigners just don’t have the moral fibre to cope with disappointments.  Not like an Englishman.”


	3. Tea

They had gathered together over a nice cup of tea.  It was, Miss Fisher acknowledged inwardly, actually a rather lavish spread, rather than a mere cuppa; but then, they needed that if they were to resolve _this_ problem—particularly since the doctors had abdicated all responsibility for it.

“It doesn’t seem to be a medical complaint,” Kit had explained when first approached by a worried Bagoas.  And while Peter Bracknell had fancied he had some expertise where the complaints that troubled women’s minds were concerned, he had declared that where the psychology of male generals—and Ancient Macedonian generals at that—was concerned, he could not claim any particular specialist knowledge (or interest).  “It just needs good nursing care, now,” opined Alec, while Sandy just smirked and said if he had access to the nursing staff Alexander had, he too wouldn’t emerge from his room for days.  (He had batted his eyelashes rather provocatively at Hephaistion while saying this.) 

So it was down to the nurses to think of some way to tempt the morose Great King to rejoin life.

“He seemed to enjoy posing for art classes last year at the Five Year Celebrations,” offered Helen.  “I’m sure community members would come in droves if I posted a message saying I’d be teaching class again.”  Nurse Adrian blushed remembering the avid stares of a few of the community members (whose sketches had been ... well ... rather sketchy as they’d spent more time looking than drawing). 

“Well, I think it isn’t a nursing matter at all,” pronounced Colonna forthrightly.  “He’s been getting plenty of nursing from Bagoas, ever since the prize winner was announced.  It isn’t more nursing care that’s needed, it’s something to do—an activity of some sorts.” 

There were general nods of agreement round the tea table as the women munched on their cucumber sandwiches and cream cakes. 

“Something to take him out of himself,” said Vivian.  “The problem is he has no hobbies—all he ever really did in life was conquer kingdoms.  And that’s just not possible these days.  What he needs is advice from a seasoned campaigner who learned how to do other things in peacetime.  The question really is—who?”


	4. Dinner

It took them a while to track down Ptolemy.  Unlike most of the clubhouse denizens, he’d been out hunting all day.  When he’d returned at dusk, he’d headed immediately to the bathhouse from which hearty laughter and girlish squeals had emanated for some time.  Thaïs had emerged after while looking pleased with herself, if a little tired, to order a light meal be delivered straight to their rooms.  She recommended they wait for a bit before approaching him. 

“After supper,” she said.  “He brought back boar, and it will be a little while before it is ready so we are dining late tonight.  He’s just going to have a small bite to eat, and then a quick nap.  It isn’t wise to disturb the slumbers of a king, so I’d wait a while if I were you.”


	5. Supper

When he was asked, Ptolemy just laughed. “Tell him the army needs him.”

“The army?” Bagoas queried. 

“Surely you haven’t forgotten India?”  Ptolemy took another large bite of roast boar meat and chewed with relish, then washed it down with a gulp of wine, before he added, “nor how keenly he felt the fact the community never completed the glossary for _The Persian Boy_.  Oh, I know he put a brave face on it for [Odell’s column](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6072838), but you and I both know he’s never been reconciled to the fact the glossaries were finished without that book being tackled.  Just tell him the army is in despair—he’ll rally.” 

Bagoas considered the matter a few minutes, but realised the truth of this quickly.  After all, Alexander had left his sick bed after receiving that wound in the Malian campaign when he’d learned the army thought he might be dead.  And hadn’t he rallied himself on his deathbed, just to say goodbye to his beloved army?  Chagrined, Bagoas realised that Hephaistion might have been the love of the Great King’s youth, and he the one of maturity; but the real love of Alexander’s life had always been the army.


	6. Nightcap

Flickering torches dotted the grounds.  From a distance they had the appearance of fireflies.  Alexander sat on the clubhouse balcony, flanked on the right by Hephaistion and Ptolemy, on his left Antipatros.  In the end, he had realised this was his destiny.  What did it really matter that his book had not won the prize?  The handmaidens remained true to him.  See how they had travelled from near and far, coming to camp out on the grounds when they’d heard of his troubles, rallying to his cause.  He held his cup out for a refill, then lifted it to toast their health; they replied with a great joyous shout that bounced an echo back from the hills beyond.

“See, my lord,” said Antipatros, “They love you, still.”


End file.
